Impossibly
by mysterieJamie
Summary: - or why John didn't punch Sherlock this time. Reunion.


**Impossibly**

_First post, patience appreciated while I learn how everything here works. R&R, pls., thanks! All characters property of ACD and Gatiss, Moffat & Thompson._

The man with the umbrella stood in the doorway of the Baker Street flat, impassive and immaculate as always, except for the bruise splitting one high cheek.

The thought _What's that all about?_ occurred in John's brain, but he didn't care enough to ask.

He simply didn't care.

He turned his back on the man and walked away.

"You have nothing to say that I want to hear, Mycroft."

"Sherlock isn't dead, John."

A long moment later John realized he was thinking, _It's a good thing I'm sitting down_, although he wasn't quite sure how that had happened. His brain stuttered for a response, then,

"Nice try, Mycroft. And I suppose he's in a witness protection program in America?"

Then the impossibly deep voice, sounding hesitant (hesitant? that voice?!)

"Er, no, actually - I'm right here."

Two such shocks so quickly were too much for John. From an impossibly far distance he heard

"John? John!" and the sound of a body moving, then,

"Now see what you've done to him!"

"What I've done to him?"

"You told me you'd told him. You promised me you'd tell him!"

"So I did. I did not, however, specify when I would tell him. A detail you normally would have not missed, but you were being a bit … sentimental … at the time."

"Ohh - piss off." And then his name again, "John."

The older man, intently: "It was too dangerous, Sherlock -"

- and the younger: "Look at him, Mycroft. What damage have we done to him by not letting him know?"

_Hmm, _mused John, _My blood pressure is about, oh, 80 over 50, the room is spinning even though my eyes are closed - _

An impossibly warm hand was patting his face now, repeating urgently, "John?"

It had to be real - no hallucination could bicker like the Holmes brothers. He should say something, do something, but his brain was porridge and he could barely breathe past the pressure in his throat.

"John was not my first concern."

"Well, he was mine, dammit."

"Funny, that. You used to have more sense of self-preservation."

Even through his eyelids John could sense the glare that provoked. Impossibly long fingers were now probing his jaw for a pulse, and John reached up to take the hand in his, and opened his eyes.

"John!"

Sherlock Holmes was hunkered on the floor in front of him, almost at eye level. Horribly drawn and gaunt, cheekbones all but cutting through the skin, new lines around the eyes and mouth - and was that white in his hair? Yes, just enough strands to form a narrow streak.

"Hell, Sherlock, you look awful."

A puff of breath, the slightest turn of a smile. "Yeah, well, so do you."

John barely twisted his head, denying it. "I'm all right." His eyes searched the blue-gray ones across from him. "I'm all right now, you great git!" He reached across and seized Sherlock's upper arms, matching the grip the other man had on his wrists. _Thin, impossibly thin, but firm and warm and alive, oh, god._ John tipped back his head as laughter bubbled up past the choking in his throat, laughter in which Sherlock did not join him as he had so many times before ...

John looked again at Sherlock, and his face stopped John's heart.

It wasn't a proper hug - their knees were in the way - but John leaned his forehead against that impossibly bony shoulder. From somewhere within him came a huge breath - a deeper breath than it seemed he had drawn since … well, yes.

Sherlock froze, for an almost indiscernible instant, then gently raised his hand and cradled it against the back of John's head.

The man with the umbrella slipped away unnoticed.

Finally John sat up, disregarding the dampness cooling on his face. "So what's your excuse this time, mate? What was so damn dangerous that you actually trusted your 'dear brother'?"

"Obviously a mistake." The impossibly mobile mouth grimaced.

"Moriarity, of course, but …?"

"It was the logical end to his game, that his smear campaign would end in my suicide. It's why I met him on the roof. I'd set up a cover story with  
Molly -"

"Cover story? with Molly?!"

"- She worked in the morgue. If anyone could pull it off, she could." More quickly now, willing John to understand, to accept: "I was going without enough data, making it up as I went along. I had to keep you out of the mix - I had to bring Moriarity to a resolution without his being distracted by you."

Something was wrong with this explanation. "So you trusted Molly, but not me."

Shaking his head: "I trusted you both, John. I trusted Molly to do whatever I asked without question. I trusted that you would have argued with me, would have refused to let me go into danger without you."

Sherlock stood swiftly, then seated himself on the sofa next to the older man, turning to face John. His impossibly long fingers were clasped whitely in his lap. "Could you have, John? Could you have sat quietly in the lab, imagining what was going on over your head?"

John's eyes sought the table, the wall, the fireplace. Then, in a small voice, "I - I don't know, Sherlock. I just - I dunno."

Sherlock's eyes joined John's, staring into the flames. "As it happened, you couldn't have been up there without his knowing. He had snipers, John. On Lestrade, on Mrs. Hudson, and -" an infinitesimal pause "- on you. The only way they would not shoot was if they saw me jump." A quick glance and then away, as John murmured,

"Jesus, Sherlock."

"Once everyone thought I was dead, we realized I had the perfect cover to take out the rest of his … " a twist of disgust to the mouth "... web ... incognito. Yes, Mycroft talked me into it, but it wasn't difficult - while there was any chance of anyone out there wanting revenge for their leader's death, everyone … close to me … was in danger. But I made Mycroft promise me he'd tell you, that I was alive."

"And he didn't."

"At first he couldn't, there was still too much media attention on you. Then he said he had told you, that you were angry at first, and then you understood." John realized Sherlock's eyes were on his face again, gauging his reactions. "I wanted to contact you myself, be sure you were all right. Mycroft kept insisting it was too dangerous, that Moriarity's people were everywhere and that any contact could be traced."

"And any change in my behavior would be seen as evidence that you were - still to be reckoned with."

"You're just not that good an actor, John." Ah, the old complaint, never spoken, always acknowledged. "That good a friend, yes, but not that good an actor."

Another glance between them. "Friends protect people, John. You taught me that."

John cleared his throat, tried to lighten the conversation. "Well, it's partly my fault, I suppose. If I hadn't been such a bloody idiot about it in the first place, I wouldn't have had as much acting to do when I found out the truth." Abruptly, he realized what he had revealed. _Damn._

Softly: "I saw you at the cemetery, John. I saw how much this hurt you. Had there been any way - any way - I could have given you your miracle, without it jeopardizing your life - I would have."

Sherlock was pleading. For understanding? For acceptance?

John couldn't sort his feelings, they were in layers like a Kit-Kat bar, all sharp hard edges and squidgy bits between. He twisted on the sofa to give Sherlock a searching look.

The younger man sat impossibly still, inviting John's regard.

_Open_, John thought, _deliberately vulnerable._ No secrets, no lies, no what-can-I-say-so-John-will-do-what-I-want. _He's like a child_, John realized; a child who knows he has committed the unforgivable, and pleads against reason to be spared the inevitable retribution.

And like that child, Sherlock Holmes was terrified.

"John - believe me? Please."

And suddenly, impossibly, everything was right again. John felt himself smiling as he assured his friend, "I'll always believe in Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock shut his eyes, leaning back his head with a deep shuddering breath. "Thank you." He lifted his face to John, the lids opening, impossibly long lashes dark against the dark hollows, and joy parting the lips. "Thank you - for my miracle."

They sat like that for what? A minute? A lifetime? grinning like idiots and studying each other's faces, watching the all pieces fall back into place.

John spoke first, breaking the spell. "Here, Sherlock, you really do look as if you've been through hell. You need food and you need sleep, and I'm not taking "No" this time. You get to choose which first."

"Ah - " Sherlock seemed taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. "Food? I could eat something, yes. Then sleep."

Sherlock followed him to the kitchen, leaning silent against the door frame while John made a plate of sandwiches. Sherlock was plainly too worn out to stand there for long, but John said nothing - only kept glancing around at the other man as he worked, meeting the younger man's eyes in little snatches that eased both their hearts.

John carried the tray of sandwiches and tea back to the sitting room. At first he insisted Sherlock eat, not talk - however, by the time the plate was empty the younger man was back on his feet, pacing and gesturing. There was very little of the former "aren't I brilliant" in his story, some pleasure at the figuring out of puzzles, mostly a simple satisfaction at a beastly task completed well. His movements were smaller, more compact, less extravagant of energy - a result of his exhaustion, no doubt.

_Or was it that he'd been hording his strength for so long, he couldn't remember any other way to be?_

John watched closely for a break in the narrative, a place he could interject without interrupting. Finally Sherlock paused, his voice stumbling to a halt, losing the thread of the story.

"Sherlock, look - we'll have time for this later." (_and they would, all the time in the world, oh thank god..._) "You're about to fall flat on your face, you need to get some sleep."

Sherlock peered at him, having trouble tracking. "Um, yeah, right. Sleep - " and he made of the word a sigh " - sleep would be good." His eyes roamed the room, hesitating. "I'll, um, I'll just kip on the sofa, how's that?"

_Doesn't want to be alone?_ John wondered, as he got a blanket off Sherlock's bed.

When John came back into the sitting room, Sherlock was already stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed. The lines around his eyes were relaxed, the dark circles still bruised against the facial bones.

John spread the blanket across the impossibly long body, gently tucking it around the shoulders. He stood for a bit, watching, then stooped to lay the back of his hand against Sherlock's face, part doctor, part something more.

Sherlock made a small noise in his throat (reassuring? contented?) and John allowed his fingers to slip to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, seeking the pulse there, impossibly warm, impossibly strong.

Sherlock's hand reached up to curl around his; there was a momentary grip of pressure, then the hand fell away to rest against John's wrist.

The younger man murmured, "I'm alive, John."

And John replied softly, "I know."


End file.
